I Love My Imperfect Wife Chapter 2:
The Breakfast Gambit Leo woke before the sun, the quiet of the Saturday morning a welcome contrast to the chaotic drama of the previous night. The scent of spilled, salty tagine was gone, replaced by the faint, comforting aroma of wood polish and old coffee grounds. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Oriana, who slept in a tangle of limbs and ideas. Downstairs, the kitchen, miraculously, was spotless. The only evidence of the night's disaster was the empty space on the shelf where his favorite ceramic platter had rested. He found Clara in the dining room, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored jeans, reading on her tablet while supervising her two children, who were coloring quietly. Clara didn't just wake up; she appeared. "Good morning, Leo," she said, her voice soft but perfectly modulated. "You slept in a bit. I took the liberty of getting the kids settled and starting a pot of tea. Mark is still sawing logs." Leo smiled, admiring her effortless competence. "Morning, Clara. You're up early. You don't have to be on duty here, you know." "Oh, it's just habit," she replied, gesturing toward a neatly organized counter. She had already laid out a small array of organic granola, fresh berries, and Greek yogurt—a breakfast that required no cooking, yet looked more refined than most full-course meals. He knew Clara wasn't being malicious, but the efficiency felt like a soft judgment. Oriana was still in bed, probably dreaming up a cantilevered library, while Clara was single-handedly managing the entire morning routine for four people. Just then, Oriana shuffled in. Her hair, usually a mess, was a truly spectacular feat of entropy this morning, and she was wearing one of Leo's oversized college sweatshirts. "Morning, everyone," she mumbled, blinking against the kitchen light. She spotted Clara's pristine arrangement of breakfast items. "Clara, you're amazing. That looks like a magazine cover." Clara gave a polite, tight smile. "It's just yogurt, Oriana. Now, how about some coffee?" "Coffee! Yes. I'll do it," Oriana announced, puffing her chest slightly. She was determined to prove that she could handle one simple domestic task, especially after the trauma of the Tagine Debacle. Leo knew the danger was imminent. The stakes were low—just coffee—but Oriana's pride was brittle this morning. Their coffee setup was an imposing, beautiful thing: a shiny, chrome-and-glass French press, demanding careful measurements and a precise 4-minute steep. The only person who had ever mastered it was Leo. Oriana bravely retrieved the French press. She located the dark roast beans, the electric grinder, and the kettle. She then did two things fundamentally wrong in swift succession. First, she picked up the bag of pre-ground decaf coffee Leo kept tucked away for his late-night emergencies, mistaking it for the good stuff. Second, she bypassed the grinder entirely, convinced the process was simpler than that. "I am going to make the perfect, darkest brew," she whispered to Leo, shooting him a look of manic confidence as she spooned what appeared to be an entire cup of the fine, chalky decaf powder directly into the empty French press carafe. Leo watched in silent horror. This wouldn't be coffee; it would be dense, bitter sludge that would plug up the press filter instantly, yielding maybe half a cup of undrinkable liquid. And it would be decaf, which Mark needed about as much as he needed a new hole in his suit. Leo had to intervene, and he had to do it before the boiling water hit the grounds. "Sweetheart, hold that thought!" Leo called out, striding over with forced cheer. He gave her a quick, tight hug from behind. "Clara, I hope you're ready for the real house tour. Oriana, I forgot to show Clara the latest sketch for the new museum wing. Why don't you talk her through the initial concept?" Oriana, always eager to discuss her work, instantly dropped the French press handle. "Oh, yes! Clara, come look at the dynamic forces on the main atrium..." She grabbed Clara's arm and pulled her away toward the living room table where her large architectural drawings were spread out, effectively removing the discerning eye from the kitchen. As the two women's voices—one enthusiastic, one politely interested—drifted down the hall, Leo took a deep breath. He quickly fished a measuring spoon out of the drawer. He dumped most of Oriana's decaf mountain into the compost, rinsed the carafe, and quickly began his own, proper preparation: fresh beans, correct measurement, and the right grind. He measured the water, poured it, and carefully set the timer on his watch. When Oriana and Clara returned a few minutes later, Oriana was practically glowing, having spent five minutes talking about structural integrity. "—and that's how we solved the sheer wall problem," Oriana concluded triumphantly. "Fascinating, Oriana, really," Clara said, genuinely impressed by the scope of the project. She glanced at the counter. "Leo, I see you've handled the coffee." "Had to," Leo said easily, placing the full press on the counter. "It's a specific ritual, you know? Like a tiny science experiment. I'm responsible for the infrastructure of the house and the caffeine delivery system." He winked at Oriana. "Wouldn't want my genius architect running on decaf sludge all day." Oriana looked at the French press, a spark of memory returning. The massive pile of decaf powder she'd nearly drowned. She realized, with a rush of heat, that Leo had saved her again, this time with a charming distraction instead of a theatrical smash. "He's right," Oriana said, smoothly recovering. "He's the coffee alchemist. If I touch the caffeine supply, the entire neighborhood ends up over-caffeinated." When the four-minute timer beeped, Leo pressed the filter, poured a perfect cup, and handed it to Clara. Clara took a sip, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, Leo. This is... amazing. Seriously. It's perfect." Mark stumbled in then, drawn by the smell of proper coffee. He grabbed a mug. "Wait, Oriana made this?" "No, Mark," Leo said, his arm slipping around Oriana's shoulder. "I did. That's our system. She creates the beautiful things in life—the books, the buildings, the spontaneous joy. I just handle the things that require precision and measuring cups. It's the infrastructure of our genius." Mark nodded, taking a large gulp of the coffee. "Well, that's a good system. I'm terrible at both." Clara watched the exchange. She saw the easy affection, the way Leo covered for his wife, not by apologizing for her flaws, but by reframing them as part of her brilliance. She looked at Oriana, who stood tall and confident, accepting Leo's protection as the ultimate sign of love. Clara realized that Oriana didn't need to be perfect because Leo was perfect for her. Later, as they waited for Mark to finish his second cup, Clara pulled Leo aside. "I need to apologize," Clara whispered. "Last night, when I saw the mess, I thought, 'Oh, poor Leo. He's married a child.' But this morning..." Leo raised an eyebrow. "This morning, I realized I've been running my house like a meticulous business, and you run yours like a masterpiece," she continued softly. "You make up the missing pieces for her so effortlessly. You don't try to change her. You just love the architect." Leo smiled, a deep, genuine smile of satisfaction. "I love my imperfect wife, Clara. And she loves her overly-organized, mess-cleaning husband. Now, do you want the Sunday paper, or are we going to let the kids convince us to build a fort?" Oriana, watching from the living room, caught his eye. He had saved her from the culinary crisis, the salt lick, and the decaf sludge. And in doing so, he had, once again, secured his role as the unwavering foundation beneath her brilliant, messy world.